


Salvation

by myhamsterisademon



Category: Promessi Sposi - Alessandro Manzoni
Genre: Anal Fingering, Crying, M/M, Praise Kink, way too many feelings for a pwp tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 08:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20272984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: “Are you certain?” Borromeo asks once the man is kneeling in front of him. The Cardinal’s voice sounds so gentle and kind, unhurried, unworried, trustful, even a touch amused. And, at those words uttered in such a strained voice, there’s something that tugs at his heart, that pulls the chords of it so hard it almost hurts -- and yet it isgood, and he does not want it to stop.





	Salvation

“Are you certain?” Borromeo asks once the man is kneeling in front of him. The Cardinal’s voice sounds so gentle and kind, unhurried, unworried, trustful, even a touch amused. And, at those words uttered in such a strained voice, there’s something that tugs at his heart, that pulls the chords of it so hard it almost hurts -- and yet it is _good_, and he does not want it to stop.   
  
He doesn’t know what it is, maybe it's the picture that he must be giving -- on his knees like a devout in front of his Saint, the Cardinal’s own hand upon his head like a loving father in the act of blessing his repenting son -- or maybe it is the thought of what he has done barely ten minutes ago -- gotten on his knees and _begged_ the Cardinal to let the man worship him like he deserves to be worshipped (and his cheeks go aflame at the thought of how bold he has been, but no regrets poison his heart). Or maybe it is the knowledge that Federigo wants this as much as he _does_ and there is no hatred, nor fear nor anger in his expression.  
  
“Yes, I am certain,” he says after a moment of silence, his voice tight -- he cannot help it, but he hopes the Cardinal thinks it is from arousal (and, partly, it is) -- and his eyes dim, but the candlelight easily conceal it, and the man has never been more grateful for those wretched things in his life.  
  
“This is not the sort of communion I expected, do you know?” Borromeo asks, affectionately, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. The gesture itself, more than the touch, more than the feeling of those warm fingers calloused by age, sends a shiver running down his spine, and he hurries, unfastening the belt, pulling away the fabric. His hands are shaking, his head spinning, his heart clenching even harder -- and, oh God, _he_ is hard, aching and swelling in his trousers, desperate for friction, wanting to hear that voice again.  
  
He takes a deep breath, stops his hands for a second. Borromeo, with a soft sound, kneels with him and takes one of his hands, lifts it to his mouth and, with a smile so sweet it seems to _him_ that this is what Heaven must look like, kisses the knuckles.   
  
“No need to be afraid,” the Cardinal whispers and lunges forward to kiss his lips, the hand that isn’t holding him goes to his thighs, rubbing them through the fabric.   
  
“I am not afraid,” _he_ replies, before kissing Federigo back, before sliding his tongue into his mouth and moaning against his lips, silently thanking God and Christ himself -- and he can barely _believe it_, that not only Federigo isn’t recoiling from his touch, but he is seeking it; whimpering softly against his lips, running his hands all over his body: his cheeks, his neck, his hair -- his cock now, stroking him through his trousers and, God it is embarrassing how _hard_ and _needy_ he is, and if Federigo doesn’t stop _now_ \--  
  
“I am going to come, if you do not stop,” the man whimpers and the hand stills instantly.   
  
“Pardon me,” Borromeo pants. “Do you wish me to go?” he asks, still sweet like only he can be.  
  
“No,” is the whispered answer, barely audible in the dark room and, even through the shadows, he can see how Federigo smiles and how his eyes twinkle with that gentle and loving flame that put love into his heart.   
  
So the Cardinal smiles, ducks his head, gets up again and helps him into his task, pulls away some more fabric and then -- and _then_ he can finally take him into his mouth, tears into his eyes, moaning, almost sobbing around him, and he thanks God, again and again and again as Federigo gently starts thrusting into him.  
  
It is not very long before he finds himself on the bed, his back resting against the headboard, thighs wide open and one of Federigo's hands at his cock, two fingers of the other inside him already. He throws his head back, opens his mouth in a silent moan while Federigo _finally_ starts stroking his cock, slowly, dragging his hand up and down, barely applying any pressure at all -- while his other hand remains still, simply filling him up so impossibly _much_, occasionally thrusting up, unhurriedly stretching him open.  
  
And all the time he is speaking, whispering soft praise, surprisingly gentle filth into his ears.   
  
“It feels good,” he is saying, a little breathless, “doesn’t it? Doesn’t love feel good? It could be like this, always,” the Cardinal says as he kisses his lips and swallows a moan, while his fingers push into him a little more. “It could always feel like this, always so full of love and gratitude” -- and _God_, is he grateful -- “you know it, don’t you?”   
  
The man moans, unable to form a coherent thought at the feeling of that hand on his cock, of those fingers inside him, and it’s true -- it is _so_ good.  
  
“You are capable of this,” Federigo whispers again, twisting his fingers, clutching his cock a little harder, “you are capable of love and you deserve it -- you deserve to be loved,” he pushes a little more, a little harder, “you are so good, so brave, taking my fingers like that. So good,” he whispers again and it is those words, combined with the now four fingers thrusting into him, with the hand that is rubbing up and down, the thumb stroking at the slit -- he comes, shaking and crying and sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks.  
  
And the Cardinal holds him through it, never stops talking, never stops repeating how good he is, how _proud_ Federigo himself is and he only stops crying when he is too exhausted to do anything but remain silent, love and hope finally in his heart.


End file.
